


teaching old dogs new tricks (living lives that shouldn't be lived)

by gaygarbagebaby, orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Family Dynamic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, tags to be updated, team as a family, the umbrella academy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-12-06 19:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18224528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaygarbagebaby/pseuds/gaygarbagebaby, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tony knows he's fucked in the head (he knows, okay, Bruce?). He's always done his best to plug up the gaps in his brain because no one needs that many voices in one head. But then he's pulled, against his will, back onto the battlefield, and he actually has to confront every little instance of 'fucked up' in his life. And to be honest, he'd really rather not.





	1. UMBRELLA A-03 CASE FILE. 12.31.2008.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! welcome to this collab fic that tonystarkpunchme and i are writing together. this is just a prologue of sorts, but hopefully chapter one'll be up as soon as. this fic will probably contain a few spoilers for the umbrella academy, so id recommend watching it or reading the comics (or both!) first. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy it! we'd love to read your feedback at the end, as well. -<3 amywaited
> 
> come say hi on tumblr!  
> [amywaited](https://spideysstark.tumblr.com) // [tonystarkpunchme](https://gaygarbagebaby.tumblr.com)

_**UMBRELLA A-03 CASE FILE. 12.31.2008.**_  
_//REQUESTED BY [NAME REDACTED] 10.01.2014  
__//APPENDED ARE SUBJECT NOTES DETERMINED TO CONTAIN PERTINENT INFORMATION_

 

**NUMBER ONE: “STEVEN ROGERS”  
** _DATE OF BIRTH: 07.04.1983_  
_DATE OF EXTRACTION: 01.23.1991_  
_SKILLSET: Hand-to-hand combat: excels. Firearm combat: proficient. Interrogation: proficient._  
_ENHANCEMENT: Enhanced strength, reflexes, and stamina._  
_STATUS: Alive. Location unknown.  
_ _//Scheduled for termination 04.15.2008. Killed handlers and escaped. Likely in New York or neighboring states._

NOTES 07.04.1998  
No. 1 exhibits strong reactions when prompted (as of tests conducted _[DATE REDACTED]_. Results have remained consistent throughout testing. See test log for more detail), as well as inhuman strength and enhanced reaction time. No. 1 performs well in high stress environments, and makes use of high intelligence to achieve mission completion using nonstandard methods (demonstrating ability to adapt and overcome, as well as high performing intellect and ability to adjust to any and all situations). No. 1 also exhibits the ability to follow mission requirements, use standard mission approach when prompted, obey commands, and see them through to completion. Valuable but disposable.

 

**NUMBER TWO: “JAMES RHODES”  
** _DATE OF BIRTH: 09.07.1983_  
_DATE OF EXTRACTION 07.09.1991_  
_SKILLSET: Firearm combat: excels. Hand-to-hand combat: excels. Diplomacy: proficient._  
_ENHANCEMENT: Manipulation of the path of thrown projectiles._  
_//Path manipulation extends to bullets or other fired projectiles, but with much less precision._  
_STATUS: Alive. Location known.  
_ _//Killed handlers and escaped with No. 4 09.04.2004. Joined United States Air Force 08.30.2006. Currently stationed at Hancock Field Air Force Base, New York. Likely still in contact with No. 4._

NOTES 09.07.1998  
No. 2 demonstrates the ability to wield firearms, melee weapons, and perform hand to hand combat without the influence of his enhancement. With enhancement, No. 2 exhibits the ability to manipulate projectiles (this ability extends to bullets. Further testing to be conducted on whether it extends to other projectile objects and to determine the accuracy of manipulation). He is proficient in diplomacy and multiple forms of combat, proving No. 2 a valuable component to a military even without the enhancement. Physical fitness is the unenhanced equivalent of No. 1. No. 2 demonstrates the ability to obey and create orders as well as high intelligence and the ability to adapt and decide plans on the fly if required. Only disposable in extreme circumstances.

 

**NUMBER THREE: “VIRGINIA POTTS”  
** _DATE OF BIRTH: 02.12.1985_  
_DATE OF EXTRACTION: 02.14.1992_  
_SKILLSET: Diplomacy: excels. Infiltration: excels. Interrogation: excels. Hand-to-hand combat: proficient._  
_ENHANCEMENT: Manipulation of reality via vocal commands._  
_//Scope of manipulation is limited to individuals. Manipulation must be activated by trigger phrase “I heard a rumor.”_  
_STATUS: Alive. Location known.  
_ _//Escaped 08.01.2000. Secured job at Stane Industries 10.3.2000. Currently resides at 303 E. 39th Street Apt. 205 Manhattan NY 10016._

NOTES 02.12.2000  
No. 3 demonstrates strong ability in diplomacy, both naturally and when using enhancement. Individuals under her power are unable to break it (unless the connection is severed via termination). She demonstrates high intelligence, as well as high levels of empathy and sympathy, making her a dangerous manipulator even without her enhancement. Despite the limitations of her power (can only be activated by trigger phrase), No. 3 still proves a worthy enemy without it. Tests conducted _[DATE REDACTED]_ demonstrate her proficiency in combative efforts - with more refinement, she will be fully able in hand-to-hand combat (see test logs for more detail). Only disposable in extreme circumstances.

 

**NUMBER FOUR: “ANTHONY STARK”  
** _DATE OF BIRTH: 05.29.1986_  
_DATE OF EXTRACTION: 12.20.1992_  
_SKILLSET: Hand-to-hand combat: proficient. Infiltration: proficient._  
_ENHANCEMENT: Communication with the deceased._  
_//Shows signs of latent psychic abilities._  
_STATUS: Alive. Location unknown.  
_ _//Escaped with No. 2 09.04.2004. Likely in New York. Likely still in contact with No. 2._

NOTES 05.29.2001  
No. 4 exhibits incredible potential coupled with an unwillingness or inability to live up to it. He required little training to become proficient in hand-to-hand combat and basic infiltration skills but exhibits extreme resistance to progressing these any further. He has been prescribed trazidone antidepressants following multiple suicide attempts ( _[DATE REDACTED], [DATE REDACTED], [DATE REDACTED]_ ), which appear to have the side effects of weakening his enhancement. This prescription was halted from _[DATE REDACTED]_ to _[DATE REDACTED]_ . During this time period, No. 4 caused several minor anomalous events suggesting the presence of nascent abilities tangential to his main enhancement. However, another suicide attempt ( _[DATE REDACTED]_ ) led to the conclusion that the need for him to remain relatively mentally stable outweighs further exploration of his enhancement. Indispensable.

 

**NUMBER FIVE: “AVERY STARK”  
** _DATE OF BIRTH: 06.04.1988_  
_DATE OF EXTRACTION: 12.20.1992_  
_SKILLSET: Hand-to-hand combat: excels. Infiltration: proficient._  
_ENHANCEMENT: Ability to “jump” across small areas of space._  
_STATUS: Unknown, presumed deceased.  
_ _//Disappeared 07.31.2003. Circumstances unclear._

NOTES 08.2.2003  
No. 5 is suspected to have successfully used his enhancement to escape. It is likely that his limited range and inability to safely jump to areas outside of his line of sight will significantly hinder his escape. Extraction has been tasked with locating him.

 

**NUMBER SIX: “BRUCE BANNER”  
** _DATE OF BIRTH: 12.18.1988_  
_DATE OF EXTRACTION: 05.18.1993_  
_SKILLSET: Hand-to-hand combat: excels._  
_ENHANCEMENT: Retractable, tentacle-like appendages._  
_STATUS: Deceased.  
__//Killed in action 03.02.2002._

NOTES 3.03.2002  
KIA. See personal files for more detail.

 

**NUMBER SEVEN: “NATALIA ROMANOVA”  
** _DATE OF BIRTH: 03.15.1990_  
_DATE OF EXTRACTION: 11.01.1993_  
_SKILLSET: Firearm combat: excels. Hand-to-hand combat: excels. Diplomacy: excels. Infiltration: excels. Interrogation: excels._  
_ENHANCEMENT: Conversion of sound waves into physical force._  
_//Power seems to be tied to emotional state. Extremely destructive when not precisely controlled._  
_STATUS: Alive. Location known.  
_ _//Enhancement suppressed following [REDACTED]. Released 08.20.2008. Currently resides at 5959 Broadway Apt. 145 Bronx NY 10463._

NOTES 03.20.2002  
No. 7’s enhancement is unavailable after suppression _[DATE REDACTED]_. She is now, for all intents and purposes, fully human.

NOTES 03.15.2005  
No. 7 excels in combat, both melee and long range, demonstrating high ability in firearm combat and hand to hand combat. She exhibits the ability to adapt quickly and takes well to fast paced changes (both in mission and everyday life). No. 7 demonstrates high intelligence and intellect, paired with proficient interrogation and diplomatic skills. The suppression of her enhancement made no affect on her development nor mental or physical wellbeing (despite her having expressed feelings of discontent and unbelonging - neither of these are a cause for concern). See test log for more detail into enhancement. Indispensable.


	2. new ends and old beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first (proper) chapter! super hoping you'll enjoy it. if you do, let us know what you think!
> 
> if all goes to plan, chapter two should be out in about two weeks (well, hopefully). thanks for sticking with us! - <3 amywaited
> 
> come say hi on tumblr!  
> [amywaited](https://spideysstark.tumblr.com) // [tonystarkpunchme"](https://gaygarbagebaby.tumblr.com)

It’s a gorgeous day, and Tony _fucking_ hates it.

The sky is cloudless and painfully blue, sunlight stabs at his eyes, every light whisper of a breeze chills him to the bone, and voices are starting to bleed into the edges of his consciousness. And he’s out of pills. And the wall behind the dumpster smells like garbage, which makes sense, but he doesn’t trust his legs to support him if he tries to stand up and move, so. That’s that.

Bruce stands a few feet away from him, arms crossed and frowning. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Tony,” he says, and Tony just laughs bitterly and shakes his head.

“You’re 14 years too late, Brucie,” he responds, “and you know that.”

Besides, he thinks, the high’s worth the comedown. Even if only for the blissful silence. Not like Bruce or Rhodey would agree, but what did they know? Nothing.

“You should probably move,” Bruce says. “It’s a bit weird if someone finds you passed out behind a dumpster.”

“I’m so done listening to you, you know? I don’t care if other people think it’s weird. This place stinks and I love it,” Tony says, because he’s nothing if not defiant and he’s not about to back down now.

Bruce just frowns at him, with the frown that only he seems capable of producing (the one that makes Tony feel like he just stepped on Bruce’s cat, or something).

“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice,” Tony says, thoroughly avoiding Bruce’s eyes. “I’m fine. You need to stop worrying about me.”

“I’ll never not worry about you, especially not when you’re killing yourself every goddamn day and I’m the one who has to see it,” Bruce says.

“God, wouldn’t that be the dream?” Tony says, “you don’t have to see it, you know. You can turn around, or close your eyes, or just stop coming to see me.”

“If that were even an option,” Bruce says.

“Yeah, well,” Tony sighs. He doesn’t want to lean against the dumpster wall because there’s a banana peel stuck to it and it’s kind of gross and horrid, but he does anyway. Whatever moldy garbage juice he gets in his hair will wash out at some point. Like, when it rains. “Maybe someday we’ll know more about what actually happened to us.”

Bruce scuffs his feet. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You’ll ruin your shoes doing that.”

“Like that’s ever stopped me,” Bruce says. “You know, most people would find it weird to see some druggie talking to himself in a gross alleyway.”

Tony shrugs. “So? The only people who are bothered by it are the ones who stare, and no one comes down gross alleyways anymore anyway. I’m safe as can be down here.”

“Safe is debatable.”

“Well, you’re just full of sunshine and rainbows today, aren’t you?” Tony mutters. “Let me live in the fantasy that my safety is secure and constant.”

“Maybe if you stopped popping pills your safety _would_ be secure and constant.”

“You’re talking and all I hear is ‘meh-meh-meh-meh-meh’,” Tony scoffs. “Seriously, can you stop being such a worrywart for just five seconds? I literally cannot count how many times we’ve had this conversation.”

“Maybe if you actually listened to me, we wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation.”

Tony throws his hands up and shrugs helplessly. “Look, Bruce, I’m gonna spend my entire life toeing the line between living and dead either way, and I prefer the version where I only have to deal with one ghost.”

That shuts Bruce up. Tony huffs, hugging his knees closer to his chest and trying not to breathe through his nose. The banana peel loses its hold on the grimy metal and drops to the ground next to him. Almost without thinking, he picks it up and lobs it at Bruce. It flies through his stomach and hits the wall behind him, eliciting an exasperated sigh.

“If I could touch things, you’d be toast,” Bruce says, and it’s not that funny but they both dissolve into peals of laughter and for a moment, things are good.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey finds him that night.

A hand closes tightly around Tony’s bicep as he walks briskly down the sidewalk, and immediately he knows who it belongs to. He steps to the side, out of the way, and whines dramatically as he’s roughly turned around. “Hand it over.”

“Come on, Rhodes, it’s a fucking Rolex! Anyone who has enough money for one Rolex has enough money for 20, he won’t miss it.”

Rhodey doesn’t budge. “ _Hand it over._ ”

“Alright, alright!” Tony groans and digs the timepiece out of his pocket, dropping it into Rhodey’s hand and hissing as his arm is released from the man’s vice grip. “That thing could’ve paid for, like, a year of rent.”

Don’t pretend you were going to pay for rent with it,” Rhodey says. “I _know_ you.”

“Yeah, well, details,” Tony says airily, “nice to see you again, by the way. I’m doing great, thanks for asking!”

Rhodey levels him with some kind of unimpressed glare. “How are you, Tony?” he says, all sorts of faux pleasantries.

Tony grins. “Whatever, whatever. It’s been a while, hm? Where’ve you been?”

“This, that,” Rhodey says dismissively. “Saving the world, you know the drill. It’s all classified.”

“Oh, of course,” Tony says. “When is it not? So what can you tell me? Any juicy workplace goss? Tell me _everything_.”

Rhodey makes a face. “There’s nothing happening.”

“Seriously?” Tony asks. “You work in the military, aka a place with the most sexually frustrated, attractive men I’ve ever seen in my life and you haven’t fucked any of them? Honestly, I’m disappointed.”

“We’re not all raging homosexuals like you,” Rhodey says, and Tony recoils in mock horror.

“Raging homosexual? You wound me, Rhodey, assuming I would limit myself to men.” He frowns, gesturing at the watch still in Rhodey’s hand. “Are you actually going to attempt to return that, or can I have it back?”

“I was planning on waiting for its owner to realize it was missing and barrel down the street crying thief.”

“What, so you can nicely hand it back to him? I’m sure that’ll go over well.”

“Actually, I was planning on throwing it at his head and getting the hell out of dodge.”

Tony splutters. “Wh- you’re joking, right? You’re not. I think my plans for that watch are actually way better than yours, so you should just-”

“Tony,” Rhodey cuts him off, and his expression is suddenly deadly serious. “I did not spend three days tracking you down to watch you go pawn off a stolen Rolex for drug money.” He purses his lips and sighs. “There’s some serious business we need to attend to.”

“What could be more important than getting my next fix?” Tony says. He spreads his arms, spinning around in front of Rhodey. “Nothing, that’s what.”

“You need some serious help,” Rhodey tells him, “like, Jesus.”

“I’m fine,” Tony says. “I’m _fiiiiine._ Actually, I’m better than fine! And I’ve been sober for, like, ten hours.”

Rhodey claps slowly. “Wow. That’s so amazing. I’m so impressed.”

Tony drops his arms back to his sides and huffs. “Fucking lighten up, Rhodes. I know the military squeezed out every drop of fun left in you, but you could at least pretend like you still have feelings.”

“That is not what this is about.”

“Whatever.” Tony points over Rhodey’s shoulder, at a portly man in a hideous fur hat pushing his way through the crowd. “There’s the guy, by the way. Look, he has a goddamn dead raccoon sitting ass-up on his head, liberating him of a few thousand dollars is doing everyone a favor. What is this ‘very important business’’’ - he accentuates those words with air quotes - “that we have to take care of anyway? Why do you need _me_?”

Rhodey flicks his wrist, and Tony squints at the glimmering silver as it arcs into the air, whizzes around a lamppost, and falls into the crowd.

“I quite liked that watch,” Tony says.

“Yeah, well, tough,” Rhodey says. “Forget about it. We have more important things to address first.”

“You know it’d be easier if you actually told me what those things were,” Tony says. Rhodey frowns, and Tony watches his eyes bounce around.

“We can’t talk here,” Rhodey says, and he starts off down the street at a fast paced jog.

Tony runs to catch up. “Jesus, the military really made you paranoid, huh?”

“No, it made me prudent,” Rhodey retorts. “Now shut up and follow me.”

“Alright, Mr Colonel Officer Soldier Man,” Tony says, “I’m following.”

Rhodey leads him to the outside of some scary sex dungeon looking warehouse. Tony does his absolute level best to refrain from commenting on it, because if he knows Rhodey, he knows that he isn’t exactly above handing Tony’s ass to him on a silver platter. Tony would really rather not leave this torture building with a broken nose or seven.

“What are we doing here, then?” Tony asks. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you brought me here to kill me.”

“Sometimes I wish I could,” Rhodey says, longsufferingly. “This is a safe house. It’s not bugged, it’s defended, and I know the escape routes. Come on, inside.”

“This is a safe house?” Tony says incredulously. “Seriously? It looks more like a reject set design for some shitty, low budget horror movie.”

“Yes, seriously. I know you think I’m making all this up, but this is some super confidential info,” Rhodey says. “At least take me seriously for five seconds.”

Tony sighs, but makes some half-hearted agreeable gesture. “Sure, yes, whatever. If I die in there, just know that I will never forgive you, and I will haunt you until the end of time itself.”

“I never would have expected anything less,” Rhodey says, and he unlocks the door and Tony is…

Well, Tony is mildly surprised. Apparently ‘safehouse’ translates to ‘fancy fucking huge apartment fitted with those dangly chandelier lights and wooden floors that have been oiled to within an inch of their life, till just looking at them makes Tony feel like he’s going to fall over’ in not-soldier language.

“One of these days, you’ll trust me,” Rhodey says, flicking the lights on. All of the dangly sparkly bits from the chandeliers send light dancing along the walls.

“I trust you plenty,” Tony says, defensively. He reaches out to trail a finger along one of the velvet chaise loungers. “Hey, since when did the air force provide such fancy safe houses?”

“Classified,” Rhodey says. “And don’t touch. We’ll talk in the kitchen. You go find a bedroom and… clean up first. You look and smell like you’ve spent the past three weeks in a fucking lions’ den.”

“Who’s to say I haven’t?”

Rhodey groans. “I forgot how exhausting you are to be around. Go change. There’s a rain shower in the bathroom.”

“A rain shower?” Tony perks up.

“Yes, a rain shower. Go.”

If Tony were a liar, perhaps, he would pretend that he wasn’t so easily bought by luxuries and thousand square foot apartments and velvet chaise loungers and rain showers. Tony isn’t a liar, however, and he isn’t ashamed of his taste for the riches. Rain showers are fucking cool.

 

* * *

 

Tony spends far too long scrubbing week old dirt out from under his skin, and then he spends far longer watching his skin turn from irritated pink to olive tan again. He doesn’t bother putting his clothes back on, making a mental note to get them to a dry cleaners or something ASAP, and pulls the bedsheet off of the bed and ties it around himself instead.

Rhodey has seen him in far worse regardless, but Tony is rather of the opinion that he can make togas work.

It takes him a few minutes to find the kitchen (not counting the eight minutes he spends staring at a light-up Newton's Cradle toy on a side table - it is arguably one of the coolest things Tony has ever seen, although the bar is set rather low). He manages to recognise a couple of the knicknacks lying around, most of which surprise him. And most of which are some kind of weaponry. He never pegged Rhodey for the sentimental type, but it's somewhat reassuring all the same.

He eventually finds his way, but only after walking into the same couch three times and tripping on the door jamb. Rhodey is standing at the cooker, stirring something.

“You still eat anything that’s put in front of you, right?”

Tony hums, sliding onto the countertops. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Good. We’re the first here, so I can get you up to date while we wait. You should take a seat,” Rhodey advises. “It’s a lot to take in, and we might be here for a while.”

Tony frowns. “First here? Who else are we waiting for?”

“Rest of the family,” Rhodey says. He sounds distracted, which isn’t exactly the state that Tony would like him to be in if they’re discussing The Family. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Breakfast,” Tony answers.

“Fruit roll-ups don’t count as breakfast,” Rhodey says. “When was the last time you ate something substantial?”

“What’s substantial in this day and age?” Tony says, trying really hard to a) not sound like a pissy philosophy student and b) not sound like he’s deflecting.

Rhodey nails him with a glare.

“Fine, fine. Well, my ramen packets ran out last week, so probably last, I don’t know, Sunday?”

“Jesus,” Rhodey says. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Don’t give me that look, we don’t all have fancy military jobs like you do,” Tony says, grumpily.

“You seem to be glorifying my job at the force,” Rhodey says. “But seriously? Ramen packets aren’t nutritious, it’s no wonder you’re skin and fucking bones.”

“I’m sure the drugs don’t help,” Tony says airily. “Want me to lay the table? I’ll find some candles and it’ll be just like old times.”

“God, do whatever. This place is kitted out. I can’t believe you thought ramen packets were substantial food.”

Tony doesn't reply. It’s quite amusing just listening to Rhodey grumble under his breath. He slides off of the counter top and starts rifling through all of the drawers. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, exactly, but he ends up finding a pile of kitchen knives that Rhodey’ll probably need, a magnifying glass, and a really huge magnet (which was an entirely unexpected find, but he takes it anyway).

He’s not sure why a military safe house needs a fancy, giant magnet, or what they need it for, but he amuses himself by sticking it to the refrigerator with as loud a thud as possible before Rhodey tells him to fuck off.

“That’s super annoying,” Bruce says, leaning against the wall by the fridge.

Tony doesn’t jump. “Huh. I almost forgot you were here for a second.”

“People tend to do that.”

“I’ve heard your sob story so many times I can repeat it word for word,” Tony says. “Unless you’ve decided to bother me with pure wisdom and unadulterated smart energies, please kindly go away. I’d like to spend some time with my Rhodey.”

“He was my brother too,” Bruce says. “I’d like to talk to him.”

Tony groans. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“You could at least _try,”_ Bruce tells him.

“I physically cannot,” Tony says. “The thought repulses me.”

“Tony? Are you talking to me?” Rhodey asks.

Tony glares at Bruce. “I’m talking to the voices in my head, honey bear. No need to worry.”

Rhodey turns to frown at him. “Have you ever considered getting therapy?”

“Been there, done that,” Tony says. “Not my thing. When are we eating?”

“Five minutes,” Rhodey says. Apparently the reminder of food distracts him, and he turns his back to Tony again.

Tony sticks his tongue out at Bruce. “I’ll try and get you through tomorrow. Apparently we’re waiting on everyone else. You can talk to them all then.”

“Everyone else?” Bruce asks.

“Yeah. Everyone else. Weren’t you listening? You’re like, literally attached to me. Why were you not paying attention?”

“I have different responsibilities in death,” Bruce says dismissively. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“You don’t even understand how much I hate you right now,” Tony says. “I don’t even know if human beings are capable of feeling this much hatred.”

“Are you implying that you’re inhuman?” Bruce asks.

“We’ve been over this before. Aren’t we all?”

“Who are you talking to?” Rhodey asks, tapping Tony’s shoulder. He jumps and spins, grinning sheepishly.

“No one,” Tony says quickly. Probably too quickly. “Doesn’t matter. Is food ready?”

Rhodey frowns, but doesn’t say anything more. “Yeah. Come on. I’ll tell you everything I know while we eat. You have a strong stomach, don’t you?”

“Oh,” Tony says, “I have the strongest.” He’s fairly certain he does. It’s either him or Steve, and Steve is all kinds of enhanced, which disqualifies him immediately (Tony isn’t a competitive person, not really. Only when it’s something he can win).

Rhodey chuckles. “That’s what they all say. Come on.”

He leads Tony into the dining room. Two places are laid, and plates piled with pasta already sitting on the mats. Tony makes an appreciative noise and sits down, forgetting about any table manners he had learnt previously. All thought of Bruce goes out the window, and he’s almost able to ignore the slight flicker of his spirit on the edge of his vision.

Bruce, thankfully, has the common decency to remain silent. It gives Tony the chance to focus on Rhodey more, which is never a bad thing, except for when it is. Tony doesn’t doubt that Bruce is paying rapt attention, though, which probably means he’ll be getting quizzed on everything Rhodey says later.

It’s not ideal. But Tony doesn’t exactly have a choice. He sits and he eats fancy pasta in a fancy apartment, and ignores the ghost in the corner of his eye, and listens to Rhodey. Which is kind of the story of his life, really.

“Apparently Steve and Nat got out at some point,” Rhodey starts, “although I’m not sure when or how.”  
  
“Knew they would eventually,” Tony says around an entirely-too-large mouthful of pasta, before swallowing and letting out a quiet belch. “Am I allowed to know how you came across this information, or is that classified too?”

“Excuse you,” Rhodey says drily, “and actually, it’s quite relevant. I got this.” He procures a cream-colored sheet of paper from inside his jacket and slides it across the table to Tony, who picks it up and unfolds it, oily fingers be damned. “Apparently someone outside of Umbrella was keeping tabs on us.”

For once, Tony refrains from making any unnecessary quips, mostly because he’s too busy trying to read the cramped, loopy script adorning the letter. “Awesome.” Eyes burning, he folds the letter back up and tosses it back to Rhodey. “That thing is completely illegible.”

Rhodey huffs, although there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Well, I’ll summarize. It’s from an organization called S.H.I.E.L.D.” He actually says every individual letter, because of course he does. “They say they’ve contacted Pepper and Natasha as well.”

“Not Steve?”

“They don’t know where he is. Said they hoped one of us knew his whereabouts. And yours, obviously.”

A knot forms in the pit of Tony’s stomach. “What about Avery?”

Rhodey purses his lips, and the knot tightens, but he presses on anyway. “They didn’t ask about Avery? Why?”

“You know why,” Rhodey says softly, and Tony shakes his head vehemently. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bruce drift closer.

Rhodey opens his mouth to continue, but Tony shuts him down with an icy glare. “I don’t know why, actually. Enlighten me.” He almost wants it. Wants to start a fight, which is highly unusual for him, especially since he’s malnourished and weak and Rhodey’s fit as a military bull but fuck, it’d be such a good release from the horrible, horrible tension suddenly hanging in the air. Of course, Rhodey doesn’t take the bait. He never does. He just stares back, until Tony un-clenches his jaw and sits back in his chair. “So let me guess, we’re here in your miniature mansion of a safehouse to avoid the newest set of suit-wearing wackos coming after us?”

“No,” Rhodey says, and Tony’s head snaps up. “We’re here to meet them.”

That takes a second to process. Actually, it takes several seconds, and even then all that Tony can come up with in response is an incredulous “ _What?!_ ”

“The others are coming too. I hope.”

“What- no. No, no, no, no, no,” Tony babbles, rising from his chair, not even minding as it clatters to the floor. “We are not doing this. _I_ am not doing this.”

“Tony-”

“NO!” Tony screams, and he realizes he’s clenched his fists and leaned closer to Rhodey, who’s watching him wide-eyed. Behind him, Bruce is saying something, but there are other voices overlapping his and he can’t make out the words. He needs a drink or a hit or a handful of pills or some horrific mix of all three, but before any of that he needs to get the fuck out of here. But when he steps away from the table to head towards the door, Rhodey’s in his way, and shoving at him is like shoving a brick wall.

Tony makes a desperate feint to the left, but immediately Rhodey’s arms are around his chest, holding him in place. “Tony, you have to listen to me- we are NEEDED-”

“Needed for what?! To be test subjects for another fucking group of mad scientists trying to play God?!” He thrashes helplessly, in a completely vain attempt to throw Rhodey off. “Fucking let me go!”

“They need our help,” Rhodey says evenly, and Tony sags in his arms.

“You didn’t use to be so trusting,” he mutters. “Did Steve rub off on you?”

Instead of answering him, Rhodey just sighs. “If I let you go, will you sit back down?”

Bruce jerks his head toward the couch, eyes wide, and Tony has to admit that he’s kind of curious too. He nods heavily, and the pressure on his chest lifts. The couch looks obscenely comfortable, a suspicion confirmed when he collapses onto it and sinks a solid two inches into the cushions. “Does this place have a bar?”

Rhodey sits down next to him, looking resigned. “You’re not getting drunk. You need to hear this.”

“I need a drink,” Tony pleads, “not a strong one, just something to take the edge off. Please.”

To his surprise, Rhodey acquiesces, standing and striding over to the kitchen. He returns with two bottles of beer, handing one to Tony. Bud Light. Tony figures whoever put this place together blew the whole budget on velvet chaise lounges and light-up Newton’s Cradles (which is probably what he would have done too, if he had a swanky safehouse), but cheap convenience store beer is better than no beer, so he pops the cap off and takes a swig. Rhodey does the same, before leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

After a solid twelve seconds, Tony makes a ‘get on with it’ gesture. “If you don’t start spilling the beans in the next minute, I’m making another escape attempt.”

“We’re not the only ones.”

“What.”

“Umbrella was experimenting on people before us, and they continued to do so after.”

Tony just stares.

“Apparently S.H.I.E.L.D. has been intercepting their reports.” Rhodey takes another swig, before placing his bottle on the coffee table. “That’s how they knew where to find me.”

“So...Umbrella also knows where to find you?”

“I haven’t exactly been keeping a super low profile.” Rhodey shrugs. “They can’t do anything to me without raising about twenty alarm bells across the USAF. Anyway, that’s not the important part.” He leans forward, and almost without realizing he’s doing so, Tony does too.

“The important part is that there’s a kid, and they want us to get him.”

 

* * *

  


“I cannot believe you’re doing this.”

“What, discovering that I have a sense of self-preservation?” Tony glares at Bruce, who’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed and frowning heavily. “You know I can just walk through you.”

“You’re not going to.”  
  
“Watch me.”

“Fine.” Bruce spreads his arms. “Do it. Walk out. Run away.”

“You’re being a real asshole, you know,” Tony mutters.

Bruce throws his hands up and scoffs. “ _I’m_ being an asshole? I’m not the one planning to abandon my family because I’m too scared to actually go out and do something meaningful with my life!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You’re mad because I’m right.”

“So what if I’m a coward?!” Tony curls up into a ball, knees tucked to his chest. “I’m useless. If I stick around, I’ll just hold everyone else back.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Don’t even fucking start with that.”

Bruce, of course, pays him no need. “If you didn’t drown yourself in cheap alcohol every other day, if you didn’t throw all your money away on those _fucking_ pills, then maybe that wouldn’t be the case, hm?”

“Yeah, whatever, okay? Save the lecture for another time, thanks. I’m not in the mood.”

“I am not going to save my lecture on why you shouldn’t abandon your family for _after you abandon your family!_ ”

Tony huffs. “I’m not ‘abandoning my family’. I’m taking a break.”

“You can’t take a break from family,” Bruce says irritably. “That’s not how it works.”

“Then I’ll make it work,” Tony grumps. “Leave me alone. I want to sleep so I can dream about my daring escape.”

“No.”

“What, you’re gonna stand there and watch me sleep?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Bruce says, “because if I leave you alone you’re not going to sleep, you’re going to run.”

Tony blows a raspberry at Bruce and flops backwards onto his pillow, which is almost offensively comfortable. “That’s really creepy, actually. I bet it’s against the ghost rules.” He frowns. “Are there ghost rules?”

“Stop changing the subject,” Bruce says, fixing Tony with his pointy, ‘shut up before I make you’ eyes. “I think you should stay here, at least till you can find out what’s going on. You don’t wanna become the guy who abandoned his family in their time of need, right? You’d probably get articles written about you.”

“That’s the most weirdly specific threat I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re the most weirdly specific person I know.”

Tony just groans. “Stop guilt-tripping me with your stupid logic and your stupider excuses.”

“Excuses? What excuses?”

Tony throws his hands up dramatically. “I don’t fucking know!” He rolls over, burying his face in the pillow. “Look, I haven’t slept in a real bed in years and I’m not about to give it up to run around New York at 2 in the morning, so you can actually seriously leave me alone.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, don’t you think I would if I could?” Bruce says, moving over to the fancy, old looking desk in the corner and hopping up to sit on top of it.

Tony lifts his face from the pillow and mutters, “you shouldn’t sit on that.”

“Why not?”

“What if it breaks?” he says, like it’s obvious, rolling up to lean up on his elbows and glare at Bruce.

“I’m a ghost,” Bruce says. “I don’t care if it breaks.”

“It’s- it’s not our desk,” Tony offers.

“Since when have you cared about what belongs to who?”

Tony huffs. “I don’t want to have to explain to Rhodey that we broke the desk in his fancy safe house because an apparition of his dead brother was being an idiot and sat on it. That’s not a conversation I want to have with anyone, ever.”

He’s kind of grasping at straws looking for an excuse now, and Bruce probably knows it, because Bruce is like, one IQ point away from Tony. Which is both a blessing and a curse, but mostly a curse.

Bruce makes a considering noise and tilts his head. “I guess you’re right. They’d probably shove you in another mental institute if you told anyone.”

“Yeah,” Tony scoffs. “Soon they’ll be running out of iron bars to lock me behind.”

“Well, you’ve got to be honest. Communing with your dead brother is either a chance for the government to lock you up and dissect you, or for someone to drug you up and tie you to a bed,” Bruce says.

“Right, thanks, as if those thoughts don’t consume my every waking moment,” Tony grumbles. “Thank you, Bruce, for telling me exactly what I don’t want to hear.”

“If it’s any consolation, they would have done the same to me,” Bruce says, balancing his feet on the desk chair. It creaks ominously.

“Not really.”

Bruce just shrugs. “That’s a you problem.”

Tony lets his head fall on top of the pillow. “Really feeling the love right now.”

“You’re welcome,” Bruce says. Then he frowns, his eyebrows twisting up into a confused wrinkle. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Tony asks, staring straight up into the ceiling. He decides he doesn’t care if there’s an intruder, because at least it’ll be one way to get out of whatever’s happening tomorrow.

“That,” Bruce says after a four second pause. “It’s like… footsteps. Seriously, you can’t hear it?”

“I’ve ruined my eardrums from years of hiding in clubs and bars and doing more drugs than you could even name,” Tony says listlessly.

Bruce ignores him. “I’ll be right back.”

“Or you could stay away,” Tony says after him, but he doesn’t think Bruce hears him. Whatever. He lets his eyes drift in and out of focus, hoping that Bruce doesn’t bring this supposed intruder back to his room. Sometimes, Tony would like an actual good night of sleep.

He’d also like a bottle of strong whiskey and maybe a smoke, but there’s no way Bruce or Rhodey are going to let him sneak away long enough for that. He supposes it doesn’t matter that much. Tomorrow, he’ll be able to run off and pop as many pills as he likes.

Sweet dreams, Tony tells himself, and maybe he’ll be able to fall asleep before Bruce comes back.

No such luck.

Bruce bursts back into the room not a minute later, and Tony blearily notes that his arm bounces off the doorway instead of passing through it, as if he needed another sign that he’d been sober for far too long. “It’s Nat,” Bruce says breathlessly, “and some other weird-looking guy with an eyepatch. Come on, get up!”

Tony just stares. “It’s the middle of the night, I’m sure Nat and eyepatch man can wait for 6 hours-”

He cuts himself off when he realizes that Rhodey has materialized in the doorway, looking deeply concerned. The other man opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything Tony stands, pulling the blanket up with him and throwing it around his shoulders like a giant cape.

"I know they're here, let's go say hello.“


	3. the resurrection of lives since lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter two, a whopping day later than we planned on posting it - I hope you all can forgive us for this horrific departure from our barely-defined schedule. thank you so much to everyone who's left kudos and comments, and we hope you enjoy this chapter! - aspen
> 
> (ell is interrupting this note to warn u that this chapter features discussion about drugs/addiction (not particularly graphic, but worth noting), and p dysfunctional family dynamics. if u want to know more about particular content warnings, drop us a comment & we'll work on putting them in the beginning notes. also would like u to note that whilst the internet is a wonderful resource, some of our facts etc may be things you shouldnt follow/take as gospel. thank u!)
> 
> come say hi on tumblr!  
> [amywaited](https://spideysstark.tumblr.com) // [tonystarkpunchme](https://gaygarbagebaby.tumblr.com)

Despite knowing they were there, Tony still can’t stop himself from being vaguely surprised at seeing Natasha again. She looks different. Her red hair is short now, cut in a curly bob, and her eyes tell more stories than they used to. But she’s still Natasha, and that’s reassuring to him in a way he can’t explain.

“Nat,” he says, almost breathless. He doesn’t want to see her again, he doesn’t, but she’s there and she’s holding her arms out with an exhausted grin and it takes everything in Tony not to collapse on top of her.

“It’s good to see you,” she says. She sounds more weathered, older, but Tony supposes that time is cruel to them all. He hesitates, just long enough for her to notice, before stepping forward and folding his arms around her. When they break apart, she runs her hands down his arms, eyes roving over him. Tony is suddenly very aware of the facts that a) the boxer briefs he snagged from the dresser are too big, and b) a single rain shower is not enough to undo a decade and a half of homelessness (interspersed with brief relationships, couch hopping, and trips to rehab).

“You look like a mess,” she says eventually, and Tony lets out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, well, what else is new?” He offers a half-hearted shrug, and the blanket slides off his shoulders. “Shit! I, um.” He grins sheepishly, leaning over to scoop it up off the floor. “I’ll go put on some real clothes, yeah? Let you and Rhodey get reacquainted-”

“No need,” interrupted an unfamiliar voice, and oh yeah, Bruce had said there was another person. “You clearly need sleep, and we could use some too. It’s been a long day.”

“And who are you?” Tony says, sort of dismissively and with his hackles raised, because the man is setting him on edge and not in a good way.

“This is Nick Fury,” Nat says, squeezing her hand on Tony’s forearm in what he supposes is an attempt to calm him. “He’s sort of… in charge. And why we’re all here.”

Tony hums. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Maybe not right now,” Nick Fury says. “One day, it will. We can discuss tomorrow, if you have a bed we can borrow.”

“If you’re done being cryptic,” Rhodey says, side-eyeing Natasha in the way Tony knows says ‘I’m glad you’re okay’. “There’s spare rooms down the hall.”

Tony watches Rhodey watch as Nick disappears down the hall, feeling kind of relieved he’s not the only suspicious one. Natasha bids them both goodnight and kisses Tony’s cheek, and then leaves as well.

Rhodey says, “don’t stay up too late, okay?” and he’s gone too, and then Bruce floats into his peripheral vision with a frown.

“I don’t like him.”

“That makes two of us,” Tony says, feeling indescribably exhausted all of a sudden.

“You still going to run off?” Bruce asks, all sorts of sly.

Tony doesn’t feel appropriately horrified that Bruce seems to know exactly when his interest is piqued, and he kind of really wants a bottle of whiskey and a Xanax or seven, but Bruce’s eyes say ‘warning’, so he replies, “maybe tomorrow.”

Bruce looks satisfied with that. “Sleep well, then,” he says, and then he keeps quiet for the rest of the night, which is kind of surprising but not at all unwelcome. Tony, for his part, shuffles back to his bedroom. He collapses onto the bed, wraps the blanket over his face, and lets the voices drift into his head and carry him into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

_You have to help me, Tony._

“I don’t-” His mouth is so, so dry. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to help you, please-”

_You are the only one that knows how._

“I don’t, I really don’t!” Heat lances through his temples, and he wants to sob but his eyes are burning and the tears refuse to come, and he’s so hot and so incredibly dry-

He’s cold. Cold to the bone. A tremendous weight settles itself over him, and when he tries to take a breath water rushes into his mouth-

He’s on his knees, hands pressed to his chest, watching dumbly as his organs spill out between his fingers-

He’s staring at a peppered ceiling, underneath cool linen sheets with tubes sprouting out of his arm-

There’s a knock at the door, and he’s awake.

“Morning, Tones,” Rhodey says from the doorway. “Nat’s making breakfast.” He frowns. “Are you alright? You’re covered in sweat.”  
  
Tony waves him off. “Yeah, I’m fine, blanket’s a little warm. I’ll be out in a few, just gotta freshen up and shit. Gotta look presentable for the weird eyepatch man, yeah?”

“Fury.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He wrinkles his nose, swinging his feet off the bed to stand up and stretch. “I bet you he’s lying. What kind of a name is Fury?”

Rhodey doesn’t even bother responding, choosing instead to roll his eyes (fondly, Tony’s sure) and walk off. Tony sighs, rubbing the fabric of his shirt between his fingers.

He feels sort of like he’s on death row, walking to the executioner's block, as he heads down to the kitchen. He’s not exactly sure why. He’s not sure he wants to know why either. He just knows that Bruce is watching him in that freaky-deaky, undead way of his, and Rhodey’s watching him too, and Natasha will be keeping at least one and three quarters of an eye on him. And if Tony knows military types, he knows that Nick Fury will be watching him too, which isn’t unnerving in the slightest.

He feels sort of like he has to perform. Become the aloof, druggie asshole that everyone thinks he is. Well, it’s not that far from the truth. The assumptions still tear at him. Make the voices in his head talk behind his back.

His brain keeps trying to get him to celebrate near enough eighteen hours sober (which hasn’t happened since he turned about sixteen, really). His other brain is telling him he needs to find a dealer as soon as, because eighteen hours is far too long. It’s quite distracting.

Rhodey slides a bowl of yoghurt and granola in front of him, and all of a sudden Tony finds himself sitting at the kitchen table with Natasha smiling at him.

She looks soft, sleep ruffled and warm. She’s wearing one of Rhodey’s hoodies, long enough that it reaches her mid thigh (which is about where it would reach on Tony too, and he’s not sure how he likes that thought). “The others should be getting here today,” she says.

“Others-?” Tony starts, then, “oh. Right.”

Rhodey squeezes his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. They’re family. Besides, you like Pepper, right?”

Tony hums noncommittally.

Rhodey chuckles. “Eat your granola, Tones.”

“Since when have I liked granola?” Tony asks, poking at it with a spoon.

“Since breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Natasha tells him. “And you’re gonna need energy today.”

“That bodes well,” Tony remarks, but he doesn’t usually disobey Natasha. He picks up the spoon and takes a mouthful, trying to think around the amount of vitamins he’s shovelling into his body.

Bruce chuckles in the corner of his eye. Tony sends him a blank glare and Bruce just holds his hands up in a surrender and turns back to staring at book covers.

“What are you looking at?” Nat asks curiously, starting in on a slice of Nutella-covered toast.

Tony makes an affronted noise. “How come she gets toast and chocolate and I get fucking yoghurt?”

“You’re going sober,” Rhodey says matter-of-factly. “That includes turning your diet around.”

“What-” he doesn’t know what it is, but something in Rhodey’s cool tone makes the tension he’s been carrying around since last night boil over all at once. “Like hell I’m going sober,” he snarls, standing up from the table in a sudden bout of fury.

“Yes, you are,” Rhodey says, calm as ever.

“No, I am _not,”_ Tony says, firm and loud and more shouting than he wanted. Somehow the bowl of granola ends up on the wall. Nat stares, eyes wide, but doesn’t intervene. “I’m not going sober, you’re not turning me into some military health nut, you’re not. I don’t even know what I’m doing here-! You practically kidnapped me!”

“I didn’t kidnap you, don’t be silly-“

“You brought me here against my will,” Tony says haughtily. “I’m leaving. Actually leaving. Fuck you, and your eyepatch man, and your sobriety. Try your rehab program on someone else.”

Then he stalks out. A bit of yoghurt-granola drips off of the wall with a dull splat.

Tony slams the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

He ends up in the alleyway behind the murder building.

Bruce hasn’t stopped staring at him for five minutes, all disappointed and grumpy and ‘Tony, you should go back inside.’

Tony should go and find a dealer. That’s what he should do, and Bruce seems to read his mind because he moves to immediately block the exit to the alleyway.

“You’re a ghost,” Tony says drily.

“Walk through me, then,” Bruce challenges, because they both know he won’t.

Instead Tony groans and flops down to lie on the tarmac-y ground. “I’m not going back inside. I’m staying out here till I die of pneumonia or someone finds me."

“Hypothermia,” Bruce corrects. “And I’ll go find someone if I have to.”

“You’re a _ghost_ ,” Tony repeats. “I’m the only who can see you.”

“Determination works wonders,” Bruce says and Tony sighs.

“Fine. Go be fucking determined.” And once you’re off looking for someone, he thinks, I can go find a dealer. He shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns. The fact that he doesn’t have any money might be an issue. Maybe he could sneak back into the house at some point and steal some shit. That light-up Newton’s Cradle would probably pawn for a decent price.

He thinks he dozes off, because he closes his eyes, and when he opens them Nat’s hovering above him. She looks sad, or maybe just empty. Like what Tony sees when he looks in the mirror.

“I hoped Rhodey was exaggerating,” she says quietly.

Tony smiles bitterly and shakes his head. “No such luck.”

“Why?”

“Because…” He holds a hand out, and Nat pulls him up into a sitting position. “I don’t know. Because it makes my head quieter.”

“I thought the Desyrel did that.”

“It did.” Tony shrugs listlessly. “And then it didn’t. So I went stronger. And then that didn’t either. So now we’re here.”

Nat nods slowly. “And where does it stop?”

“When I die,” Tony says flatly. “Which, frankly, would be a nice change from the status quo.” He wrinkles his nose and frowns. “Why is everyone so terrified of death? I don’t get it. But I guess I’m a weird case.”

“Aren’t we all?” A gust of wind sweeps through the alley, and Nat nudges him with her shin. “C’mon. It’s cold out here.”

“I’m not going back in there.

“There’s a 7-Eleven nearby.” She nudges him again, and Tony decides that resistance is futile. “I’ll get you a slushy.”

“Can I get some ket with that?” Tony asks listlessly, scraping his hand along the ground and picking off all the pieces of tiny stone that get stuck in his palm.

“I could make an allowance for some weed,” Natasha says.

“Jesus, weed hasn’t worked for me since I was nineteen,” Tony says, “I’m onto bigger and better things, my darling,” he declares. “Bigger and better.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Nat tells him gently. “Come on. You’re painting yourself a hell of an image by sleeping in back alleys.”

“Not the worst portrait I’ve ever had,” he says, but he stands up anyway. All of the blood in his head rushes to his feet and he sways for a few seconds.

Natasha makes a concerned face at him. “You should have eaten more at breakfast. Rhodes says your eating habits are shit.”

“Everything about me is shit,” Tony says dejectedly.

“It’s too early for your self hatred,” Natasha says. She wraps an arm around his shoulders, her small body pushing against his in a way that shouldn’t be comforting but is. She’s warm, properly warm. Tony doesn’t think he’s been properly warm in his life.

He’s glad she’s still so small. It takes him back to days that haven’t been lived in years, to days that are less like walking on Legos and more like wearing shoes on a bed of nails. It’s nice. She hasn’t been home for a long time, but she’s never not been home for him. Of course, the small concession is probably just a step in Nat’s grand plan to get him back into the godforsaken safehouse. But hey, maybe he’ll be able to convince her to buy him a bottle of beer. It’d be better than nothing.

As it turns out, no convincing is required. The man behind the counter gives them a suspicious look (Tony supposes they do make an odd pair), but Nat ignores him and makes a beeline for the back of the store. She rummages through the refrigerator, humming softly, picking through bottles and turning them consideringly in her hand.

Tony watches her, still feeling all detached from his body. It’s not a one-off feeling anymore, and he wishes it were. Every now and then, one of Natasha’s rings or her fingernails clip against the glass, jarring him from his thoughts and picking out some otherworldly tune.

After several minutes, she turns back to him holding two dark green bottles from a brand Tony has never heard of. “I had these in Russia once,” she says, “I’ve been searching for them again ever since. What are the odds of finding it in a 7-Eleven?” She grins at him, shuts the refrigerator door and snags a bag of potato chips from the shelves behind her.

Tony watches her dance her way to the counter, picking up bags of candy and gum on her way. He turns back to the refrigerator and picks out the cheapest beer he can find. He rifles through his pockets again, coming up with a bill so crumpled he can barely tell what it is (a five, which is both so much less and so much more than he thought he had).

Tony’s never cried in a 7-Eleven before, and he supposes many people would be surprised if he told them. There’s a first time for everything, though, and he drops the cheap beer and it smashes everywhere and Tony feels the remaining few pieces of his mental wall break, exposing all of the emotional fragility he’s garnered over the years.

There’s something vaguely dehumanising about sobbing in the middle of a convenience store. Tony decides he can care about that another time.

 

* * *

 

 

There is a reason Natasha is his favourite sibling after Rhodey and Avery.

She doesn’t ask questions, and she seems to kind of maybe sort of get it in a way that Rhodey just _doesn’t_.

It’s nice. Well, it’s nice, while simultaneously being overwhelmingly overwhelming. But considering basically everything about his current situation is overwhelmingly overwhelming, he really can’t complain.

They go back to the house, because of course they do. Neither Rhodey nor the weird eyepatch man (who’s on the couch, now - was he on the couch earlier?) seem surprised. Nat heads to the kitchen, plastic bags swinging from her hands, and Tony follows her, hoping that if he just avoids eye contact with Rhodey for the next five minutes and then acts like nothing happened he’ll be able to avoid a lecture.

At first it seems to be working. But then Nat hands him one of her weird Russian beers and Rhodey’s up in a flash, tugging it out of his hand and putting it in the fridge. “I told you, you’re going sober. No day-drinking.”

He sounds cautious, like he’s afraid that Tony will run away again at any moment, which isn’t entirely untrue. But Tony figures it’d be rude to make Natasha go searching for him twice in one day, so he just groans melodramatically and falls back against the counter. “Come _oooonnn_ , Rhodey, it’s one fucking beer! It won’t even make a dent in this cage of sobriety you have ever so cruelly locked me in,” he whines, giving Rhodey his best puppy-dog eyes.

Of course, Rhodey’s long since become immune to that particular strategy. “There’s no such thing as ‘only one drink’ with an alcoholic, Tony.”

“For the record, I’m actually addicted to everything except alcohol,” Tony cuts in, like that’ll help his case.

Rhodey just sighs. “Sure,” he mutters. “Look, I know kicking a habit or seven isn’t easy, especially for you, but you have to try.”

“Three.”

“What?”

“Three habits,” Tony says defeatedly. “Alcohol, Xanax, ketamine. And the last time I tried to kick them, I almost died.”

Rhodey stares. “You tried to sober up before? When?”

“Five years ago,” Tony answers, “although it was ecstacy back then, not ketamine. I’ve kicked a lot of habits, actually. I just...replaced them with new ones.”

“That’s not kicking them, then, if you’re just swapping them out for new ones,” Rhodey says.

“So?” Tony says. “We all have coping mechanisms. Yours is getting shot at in the military. Mine is fucking myself in the ass with a myriad of drugs.”

“Given the context, I think my coping mechanism is safer,” Rhodey says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I failed,” Tony spits. “And I couldn’t… disappoint you. Like that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t disappoint me,” Rhodey tells him gently. “You should have told me.”

Tony scoffs. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I do have some level of dignity and pride left.” He tries not to, but he can see his walls building themselves back up and he _hates_ it.

Natasha sighs. “Tony, you could have told someone. You should have told someone. Were you doing it alone, or with a program?”

“Alone,” Tony says, “Did you not just hear me say I still have some pride?”

“Getting help for this isn’t shameful,” Rhodey says, “You know that.”

Tony huffs, “Yeah, sure. I’m not looking for a lecture right now, okay? Just… let me have the beer. Last one. I promise.”

Rhodey looks troubled. “How do I know it’ll be the last one-?”

“Don’t you trust me?” Tony asks sharply. “I’m not a _child_ , Rhodey, you can stop treating me like one. You’re not my parent, alright? You’re not.”

“I know, Tones, I just want you to be-”

“Just give up, okay? Leave me alone because I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve here, if this whole thing is something you orchestrated just to trap me in this cage, but I don’t care. I’ll stick around to find out what the fuck you’re doing,” Tony says, “but I didn’t come for this happy family bullshit.”

He doesn’t want to stalk off again, so he doesn’t. Instead he stomps over to the counter and  hops on top of it, waiting for someone to say something and avoiding everyone's eyes. He’s better at that then he probably should be.

Rhodey says something but Tony doesn’t reply, and Natasha offers him a sad, kind of disappointed smile. Tony is used to sad, disappointed smiles, and he’s kind of immune to them now so he just stares at the wall instead.

Nick sighs from his spot in the corner, and Tony watches him pull out his phone and bring up some kind of news page. It looks less like a newspage and more like some kind of sketchy FBI thing, which Tony thinks he shouldn’t really be looking at in the middle of the living room, so he resolves to not look at it. It feels sort of like walking in your father watching a porno, or something, which is a weird comparison to make, really, but one that entirely makes sense regardless, and he’s not sure why.

He’s not sure he likes that he can’t explain why (or maybe how) Nick Fury is wholeheartedly, heartbreakingly familiar to him. There’s some memory, some recollection, a story carved in whatever cartilage is floating around the back of his head. Tony honestly thinks he’d be better off not knowing, but something about knowing Nick Fury is confusing and intriguing all at once and he absolutely fucking hates it.

Something about knowing Nick Fury once and then knowing him again makes his stomach roll for reasons he doesn’t know yet. Tony decides he’s the sort of person he’d rather stay away from, so he pushes himself into the arm of the couch and they all sit in some sort of icicle silence until the sun starts bleeding red and pink through the windows.

Tony thinks it’s all awfully reminiscent of blood, a foreboding glimpse into whatever future he doesn’t have, but he then decides that that’s the pessimism talking and he ought to take it with a pinch of salt or three. He watches the sun turn Natasha’s hair orange-y purple, and Rhodey hands out coffee mugs that need washing, and he waits for the rest of the puzzle pieces to fall into place.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve and Pepper turn up when the sun is no more than a sliver of orange on the horizon and it turns Pepper’s hair shiny and dark and it looks almost like a serpent curled up in her braid.

He’s not expecting them together, but they are. Pepper is smiling and laughing because she always is (Tony thinks it’s exhausting just watching her, if he’s honest). Steve is gruff, and emotionless, and every bit the military man that Rhodey sorely isn’t. The contrast between them is almost painful, but Tony thinks he gets it.

He can’t look at them all for too long, though. There’s still the painful absence of all the missing puzzle pieces. All of the pieces they lost along the way.

He’s drowned most of it, coated it in painkillers and more drugs than he can name, more beers and whiskeys and spirits than anyone ought to ever drink. But the puzzle is fitting together again, and Bruce sitting crosslegged in the kitchen counter only serves to make it worse.

“It’s good to see you,” Pepper murmurs to him, soft words in his ear. Natasha watches them, and Tony knows she’s watching her family draw back together and she probably hates it as much as he does. “You’re looking well.”

Tony scoffs under his breath. “No need to lie to me, Pepper. I own a mirror.”

She smiles at him. “It’s still good to see you.”

Tony let’s a tiny piece of his icicle melt. “It’s good to see you too. Was beginning to think you’d forget about us all, running that fancy company nowadays.”

“As if I could forget about my family,” Pepper says, almost teasingly. Her braid falls in his face when she leans over to press against him, but he doesn’t think he minds. “As if I would ever want to.”

Tony tries not to feel betrayed when he thinks that he kind of would want to. Bruce nails him with some kind of all knowing stare. Tony should be used to them by now.

“Alright,” Nick Fury says, punctuating the word with the sharp ‘chink’ of his coffee cup against a ceramic coaster. The conversation tapers off, all of the feel good memories that aren’t theirs to keep fading back into the past.  “Now that everyone’s here, we can cut to the chase. I have a mission for you.”

“A mission?” Natasha repeats, twisting her eyebrows into a confused frown. Tony is probably making the same face. “Like, when we were… kids?”

“Yes,” Fury says. Tony honestly wasn’t expecting him to be so blunt about it. “We’ve caught wind of one of Umbrella’s human experimentation camps. Everyone else has been let go or… disposed of, but there’s one kid left. And we need you to get him out.”

“What makes you think we can do that?” Rhodey asks. “We haven’t worked as a team for years. We barely know each other anymore.”

“You’re family,” Fury responds, “you’ll make it work. Family can do anything.”

“You’re right there, then,” Tony says, and he can feel himself recoiling as he says it, because they’ve never been a family, not really. They’ve been colleagues, work friends, not more. Never more.

“Now isn’t the time for sarcasm,” Steve says, and Tony forgets how much he used to look up to him.

Pepper looks appropriately skeptical, though, and that warms Tony’s heart immensely. She’s always perhaps been the most logical, and that reassures him. “Now isn’t the time for sentiment, either. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve done my level best to leave the more unsavory parts of my past behind.”

Rhodey raises an eyebrow. “So why’d you come?”

“Following orders just like you used to,” Steve says, because of course he still can’t help but fan the flames. Tony is this close to socking him.

“And you didn’t?” Natasha asks, almost deadpan in her monotone. “Steve Rogers, the golden military man.”

“You forget I’m not the only military man here,” Steve says, “and I served for this country. Respect would be nice, if you could deign to show it.”

This is exactly Tony’s problem with being back with everyone. When they work, they work almost too well. And all the other times when they don’t work, they’re as volatile as a bomb. It’s like stepping on eggshells, and they can’t help but to rile each other up and Tony isn’t exempt from that - and he fucking hates it.

“Who would respect a murderer?” Natasha snarls, in that weird, defensively human way of hers. Tony almost feels like he’s looking in a mirror.

“We’ve all killed people,” Rhodey says, ever the mediator. “No one is more morally good than the other here.”

“Morality is a social concept, and a sliding scale,” Tony chimes in, trying not to get involved but he hasn’t fought with people like this in years, and he’s almost missed it.

Almost. It’s not a family reunion until someone’s thrown a few punches.

Steve scoffs. “Tony, the philosopher. Why are _you_ here?”

“Moral support,” Tony responds haughtily. “Also, Rhodey physically dragged me here, so if my presence grates on your oh-so-frayed nerves, you should probably get upset with him and not me.”

Fury clears his throat, and the conversation once again shudders to a stop. Steve looks suitably embarrassed, which Tony feels oddly vindicated by.

“Are you all done?”

Everyone drops their eyes to the floor and says nothing. Tony is struck by how much they look like a bunch of guilty children. After a few painful seconds, Fury sighs. “I’m sure this is difficult for all of you. But if you can’t learn to be in each others’ company for five goddamn minutes without turning into a bunch of petty teenagers…” He narrows his eye, and Tony feels his stomach turn again. “...Things are going to become mighty unpleasant real soon.”

The silence that follows is way too huge for the cramped living room. Fury’s batshit insane, Tony thinks. They could kill him in an instant. Steve could crush his skull with his bare hands. Pepper could make him jump off the roof. Rhodey and Nat could fill his back with half the sharp objects in the house in the blink of an eye. But he’s sitting there, infuriatingly calm, _threatening_ them.

Maybe he just has a death wish. Tony would understand that.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before Steve walks off. Pepper follows him, muttering a quiet “goodnight” to everyone before disappearing. Tony wonders if she could fix everything. She heard a rumor that they all got along - boom. Done. Happy fucking family, wouldn’t that be nice? Another layer of plaster to add to all of their masks.

Rhodey hands Tony an orange bottle, rattling with little blue pills. “Just two,” he says softly. “Enough to soften the crash, and no more. I’m trusting you.”

Tony nods tiredly, opening the bottle and reaching in with fingers far less desperate than they should be. He slouches over to the kitchen to wash the pills down with water instead of alcohol (god, what is his life coming to?), and when he returns, the living room is empty.

He shouldn’t be surprised, really, it’s late as it is, never mind the bombs that’ve been dropped. At least there is something mildly comforting in the reassurance that his family (whether he can even call them that) is still just as fucked up as they used to be.

The familiarity is relieving, which is probably an admission that should get him shoved in some kind of mental institute. But he should have been in one of them years ago, so he doesn’t bear it much thought.

Bruce does a weird, ghostly shimmer in the corner of his eye. “That was fun, then.”

Tony scoffs. “If by fun you mean absolutely fucking painful, then yeah.”

“No, I can see how happy you are to be back,” Bruce says. “It comforts you to know everyone hates each other just as much as they used to.”

“It doesn’t comfort me.”

“Then what does it? For someone who just argued with his family, you look suspiciously relaxed,” Bruce says. Tony knows he’s baiting him, knows he’s leaving the question open on purpose, because Bruce is attempting his half-assed therapy thing again, and Tony knows how to recognise that. He also knows that he’s Bruce’s guinea pig for things like that, which is both a blessing and curse, and something he’d rather not think about too much.

He fumbles with his words, staring out of the window into the stars. There’s not many, city street smog blurring them into faint smudges, and Tony supposes that could be construed as some fanciful metaphor if only he cared enough. “I don’t know,” he says. “Do I need to know why arguing with the people who should be my family reassures me?”

Bruce hums. “I guess not. Probably should talk to a therapist about it, though.”

“There’s a lot I should talk to a therapist about,” Tony says, and they both sort of laugh but not really. It’s not a joke, except in the sense that they both know it’s never going to happen, but if not a joke, Tony doesn’t know what it is. And that unsettles him in a way he doesn’t particularly want to explain.

“We’re all a bit fucked up, aren’t we?” Bruce says, and that’s kind of that. Tony doesn’t think there’s much else to it, not really. There are parts of his life that he’d rather not drag up again, and maybe this is one of them.

He doubts Bruce is expecting a reply, so he doesn’t bother. Instead he sweeps a finger across the window, smearing through the condensation. He’s beginning to think his life is playing out like some bizarre, sci-fi indie film. He’s not entirely sure what to make of it.

The Xanax starts to leach out into his head, icy fingers burrowing into his brain and blanketing it with a comforting numbness. Familiar and comforting - another thing that shouldn’t be either of those things but is. He should make a list. Bruce moves toward him, the dim moonlight suffusing him with a transparent glow, a quietly beautiful reminder that Tony’s only constant companion is a lonely ghost.

He’d cry again, if he wasn’t lost in the fog. Instead, he just sinks to the floor. The carpet’s as good a place to sleep as any.

He dreams of nothing.


End file.
